


The Betrayal

by tunteeton



Series: Omega's Lament [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-21
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:18:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You actually kidnapped me from the street to discuss your baby brother's sex life?”</p><p>“I apologise, doctor Watson. But bear with me. I do value Sherlock's privacy, at least when it doesn't interfere with his continued health. There's a reason for this... interview.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Betrayal

“You actually kidnapped me from the street to discuss your baby brother's sex life?”

“I apologise, doctor Watson. But bear with me. I do value Sherlock's privacy, at least when it doesn't interfere with his continued health. There's a reason for this... interview.”

“I can't believe it, I can't fucking believe it.”

“Language, doctor Watson.”

“As if you would care, mister 'Have you ever thought about Sherlock's heats?'. Now _that_ was low.”

A stiff change in a posture. A leg raised over another.

“If you insist. But the question is a valid one and it remains. What happens when Sherlock goes to heat?”

“I don't have to answer that.”

“Doctor Watson, I have a reason to suspect my brother's... integrity is at a risk. I must ask you to trust me on this. Please, answer the question.”

“Sherlock would have my hide.”

“I doubt it, and after we settle this situation, so will you. Get on with it. This isn't the only matter in my schedule for this morning.”

“But happily you always find time for the family. Jesus, Mycroft, he might have trouble with decency, but so do you.”

A silence, then a sigh.

“You do know he's bonded, right?”

“... _what?_ ”

“Information, doctor Watson. It always has a price. I've stated mine.”

“Fine, fine. But if you're pulling me on, I swear -.”

“Are you always this slow on the uptake, or does the subject merely discomfit you? One could assume that since you're a healthy alpha living with an omega the idea would have crossed your mind at some point.”

Embarrassed hustling. A cleared throat.

“Okay, drop it. I'll spill. Though there really isn't much to tell. Basically it's just that when his heat is about to begin he tells us to get lost. So I go to Harry's or somewhere. Mrs. Hudson kips with the Turners. And then, when it's over, he calls me and tells me I can come back to the flat.”

“And how much time does he normally give you to leave?”

“It depends. Sometimes a week, sometimes less.”

“And now?”

“Funny that you should mention it. He called me while I was at the practise. Told me to stay away. The bugger probably forgot to say anything earlier. There was this case this week, it ate his brain.”

“I see. And was this the first time the warning came in such a short notice?”

“Well, now that I think about it, the last two heats came pretty quickly too. What's this about, Mycroft? Irregular heats are hardly unusual.”

“Yes, that's true. But of Sherlock, remember what I said about him the first time we met? About the battlefield?”

A wary nod.

“Well, that was really just one half of the truth. You see, to figure out my brother, you must first understand that there are two battlefields, and he's fighting on them both. The other one, the one where he's on the losing side, is inside him.”

“...eh?”

“Or I'll just put it this way. What do you think Sherlock thinks about his omega status?”

“I – I don't know. We don't speak about it, it doesn't really come up in a conversation. I guess it's all just transport for him, for that big brain of his. It probably bothers everybody else much more than it does him.”

“Yes, that's what he wants people to think. Yet he's an omega, with an omega's needs. No, don't look at me like that. Sherlock values his independence and mental faculties above everything else. What do you think happens when those are taken away from him?”

“I've a feeling you're going to tell me.”

“It's quite simple, doctor Watson. He sees it as a betrayal.”

“Oh. That's... harsh.”

“His own body mutinies against him, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. Of course it's harsh. He hates it. No, he loathes it.”

A silence. Fists, clenched.

“I feel uncomfortable discussing Sherlock like this with you.”

“I appreciate your concern, but the most important conversations often are also the most difficult ones. You are doing admirably. Now, this is the crux of the matter. Ninety five percent of the time Sherlock is a walking, socially awkward brain. The last five percent... well, the less we talk about that, the better. But they are bad, doctor Watson. They are really bad. And you've just confirmed my suspicion that they are getting even worse. You see, Sherlock has always had trouble controlling his... urges.”

“Way too much information, Mycroft.”

“No. You're a doctor, you can take it. I told you he was bonded, and I was serious.”

“But there's never been any other alpha around the flat! Is he – or she – dead?”

“On the contrary. He's alive, but stays away. There's an... agreement, of sorts.”

“I'm sorry, I have to ask. When did this happen? I mean, if _I_ was his alpha...”

A tremendously uncomfortable silence. A long, tremendously uncomfortable silence.

“It's all right, doctor Watson. I understand your sentiment. The bonding heat took place fourteen years ago.”

“Fourteen? You mean he's been bonded almost all of his adult life? And the jerk left him? No wonder his heats are a bit messed up. His hormones must be going haywire all over the place.”

A stiff cough. An almost apologetic eyebrow.

“It was a mistake. The bonding was never meant to happen. But the damage is done, and he's paying the price now.”

“But the bastard can't just waltz away! Tell me he at least occasionally visits, or _something_.”

“No. Sherlock has spent every single heat afterwards alone.”

“But that's... that's barbaric! You must do something. Find the guy. Chain him up if you have to.”

“And reunite two people who have no wish to spend time with each other, and cause Sherlock even more harm in the process? I don't think so. Anyway, he'd never accept him again. And neither would I.”

“I don't care in the slightest, Mycroft. The jerk left Sherlock in a big trouble. He's got to be hold responsible.”

“But there is an alpha in Sherlock's life. One who genuinely cares about him. One who's in a strop because of a wrong done over a decade ago.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, doctor Watson. Oh.”

“... _oh_.”

–

John called Sherlock straight after leaving Mycroft, but he didn't answer. That in itself wasn't unusual, but his medical brain scrolled through dozens of possible emergencies in seconds. He was equally dazed and worried after their chat, conducted on the leathery back seat of Mycroft's personal car, sans even Anthea.

The truth of the matter was, John _had_ thought about his flatmate in a heat. Possibly more than was decent. Okay, definitely more than was decent. But he had eyes, and as Mycroft had put it, he was a healthy alpha, and Sherlock... Well, Sherlock was drop dead gorgeous with a temper to match. And Sherlock had never, not once, hidden the fact that he was an omega.

It had taken John some months to finally understand the deal with Sherlock. It wasn't that he was 'a high-functioning sociopath', but that he completely lacked filters. Other people put unsavoury things about themselves behind curtains, didn't say them aloud, didn't draw attention to their personal dislikes. Sherlock saw and spoke the truth as it presented itself to him. No one could hide from him, and in return he saw no reason to hide from others. He didn't care about the fact that he was an omega doing things no other omega would want to do. It was as inconsequential to him as his luxurious curls or impossible cheekbones were. It was there for the world to observe, as he observed others. That made him irritating and unexplainable to many people, and completely irresistible to John, who had seen enough of the grim side of things to appreciate the bright shining light that was his flatmate.

So what did it mean, then, that Sherlock had never, not once, mentioned that he was bonded, hadn't even alluded to the possibility that he was, actually, a sexual being? Mycroft's words played in John's head as he ran towards the nearest tube station.

_“He has always had trouble controlling his urges.”_

_“It was a mistake.”_

_“He'd never accept him again.”_

John was no Sherlock Holmes, but that didn't sound like a happy bonding to him. No, it sounded like something much darker, much grimmer. And while an omega could spend some heats after bonding alone, the longer they went without their alpha, the more difficult the heats became. The list of possible effects started with irregular, long heats and painful stomach cramps and ended with internal ruptures and heavy bleeding. Sherlock had went fourteen years without an alpha.

The tube couldn't have came fast enough. Mycroft had offered him a ride back, but John had declined, wanted time to think in peace. He started to regret that decision now, concern for his friend topmost in his mind. Surely Mycroft would've done something before if Sherlock was in real danger. Surely Sherlock wouldn't let the situation become that bad...

...Sherlock, who regularly forgot to eat or sleep, who kept on pushing his body over its limits, who overworked and overachieved and then crashed, sometimes even in the middle of walking, speaking, just went down. Out cold.

Where the hell was that tube?

–

He finally arrived at Baker Street over half an hour later, running through the evening crowds, bile in his throat. He tried not to think about the fact that he was on his way to fuck Sherlock Holmes, to end their stalemate, and possibly friendship, in favour of the stubborn git's health. It wasn't romantic, and it sure as hell wasn't ideal, and not like John would have wanted it, but there were more important things at a stake here. Things like Sherlock's life.

A colossal idiot of a man that he was. That they both were. Would Sherlock perceive it as another rape? John didn't know, and didn't dare to think about it. He couldn't afford performance anxiety now. Oh dear, what if he couldn't get it up?

His panicked thoughts stopped abruptly at the sight of their front door. Two security guards stood on each side of the black door – betas, his nose confirmed when he got closer. Guarding their door. Guarding Sherlock. Oh God, had something happened?

One of the guards nodded at him respectfully.

“Doctor Watson,” he greeted and moved to let John pass. He was sure he'd never seen any of them before. The guards seemed professional, alert yet relaxed, and John forgot all about them as soon as he stepped inside.

To say that the place smelled was an understatement. An absolutely delirious scent of Sherlock permeated the air. He had enough presence of mind left to push his sleeve against his nose before climbing the stairs, three at a time. At the top he had to stop to open the door, and then it really hit him.

Sherlock was... everywhere. The unbelievable scent of an omega in a heat was tangible, and the sleeve didn't help at all. Was this really only the first day of his heat, at most eight hours in? Oh Lord. He let the sleeve drop and heard some weak rustling from his friend's bedroom.

“Sherlock?”

For a moment, everything went quiet. Then Sherlock was shouting, incoherently, and John found himself standing on his bedroom door, and _then..._

He had a fleeting thought about being happy not having to write a blog entry about this, but mostly his concentration was on Sherlock, on all fours on the bed and offering him a perfect side shot of his sweaty, glistening body. Because Sherlock was beautiful, even when face down, arse up and his cock just as red and rigid as these things could be, and John's brain shut down. Sherlock moaned into the pillow, and John had to touch him right now, or else he'd probably die.

He realised he was chanting his friend's name and couldn't shut up, but it didn't matter, because now he was by the bed, climbing into the bed, closer to the omega, and he could just reach out and touch, and so he did. Sherlock went absolutely mad from the tentative palm on his side, trashing and keening and curling towards him, his face still on the pillow, his arms outstretched, his arse...

Oh God, his arse, thrust towards John, red and ready and so _wet_ , his hole twitching and somehow already a bit open and welcoming John like he had never been welcomed in his life. He wanted nothing more than just dive in and take what was so freely offered, but there was a little voice screaming at the back of his mind, reminding him of something terribly important. His face was right there in front of that extreme temptation, and Sherlock was mewling now, and he opened his mouth to taste, and the voice went absolutely frantic, and John recoiled as if slapped.

“I'm not going to rape you,” he moaned to Sherlock, who whimpered as if those words physically hurt him. John closed his eyes and inhaled, which was a mistake, because now there was nothing else in the world than Sherlock's scent and the plaintive sounds he was making, and the taking would be so easy.

_“He'd never accept him again. And neither would I.”_

John groaned and raised his head, wrapped himself around Sherlock to kiss his neck, his straining shoulders. Sherlock sobbed and rubbed himself against John's crotch, and now his trousers were ruined from both sides, but it really didn't matter. What mattered was Sherlock and the little, desperate noises he seemed to be incapable of not making, and the trail of kisses John left on his back in his quest to somehow make this not a rape. Because Sherlock was too important, their friendship was too important to be destroyed because of this.

And then he was there, his tongue met the cleft between Sherlock's buttocks and travelled down, down, and _in_ and Sherlock made a sound like he was dying, and John was dimly aware that he was in trouble just as Sherlock went down, fast, and trembled against the trashed sheets. John dropped with him, tried to get deeper, taste more, and his mouth was flooded with Sherlock's lubricant and he would have taken him right then if not for his clothes. He raised his head and stared at himself, still fully clothed, and then turned back to Sherlock, who was reduced to a trembling, howling mess on the bed.

“Not raping you,” John told the room, and set to work with his hands.

Sherlock was astonishingly loose already, and it didn't take long for him to be rutting against three hooked fingers, deep in his arse, and begging to be fucked. They weren't words John had ever expected to hear from his friend, but he agreed wholeheartedly and removed one hand to undo his belt, rip open his trousers and drop his pants, because really, who had time for undressing?

Seeing his own cock, huge and throbbing and pointing unerringly towards its target, gave John another pause. Three fingers were well and good, but this thing was something else. He groaned again and removed his other hand from Sherlock's clenching arse, guided him back to his knees. At first the omega fought the touch, but when he understood where this was leading to he became pliant, easily manoeuvred, until he was back in position, presenting like from a textbook. John took a deep, shuddering breath and gripped Sherlock's hips, ready for any sudden movements. 

“Not a rape,” he reminded himself, and Sherlock answered, on his own way.

“Please, please, please,” fell brokenly from his lips and there wasn't a muscle in his body not trembling in anticipation.

The first touch of Sherlock's hot, slick skin against his cock felt like a revelation, so easy and right that he had to blink tears away from his eyes, afraid to let go of Sherlock's hips. He watched himself disappear, slowly, to the welcoming hole as Sherlock keened and whimpered in front of him before finally submitting, giving himself completely over to John. He felt it happening, felt the fight leaving his friend's body and had to bite back a sob. Not a rape, not a rape. Thank God, not a rape.

Then he was there, at home, and Sherlock was hot and tight and _right_ around him, and his last coherent thought was that of a marvel. It was all too much, Sherlock rolling his back and throwing his head back and moaning, and the sweet, sweet friction on his cock and the hardening of his balls and dear God how Sherlock clenched around him, like he was coming _already_ , and John was done being the sensible one. 

There was a hot omega hole on offer, and he took what was presented to him, and when he couldn't get the friction quite right he gripped a handful of those lovely curls and yanked back and that was so much better. The omega wailed and surrendered so beautifully and he had to move faster, get deeper, pound harder. He had to knot, had to own, had to possess this perfect thing under him. He was dimly aware of the omega screaming and coming all over himself and felt his lips twist into a cruel smile. His omega. His beautiful, meek omega, delivering his pleasure from his actions, submitting to his mercies. Take. Own. Possess. Knot. Breed. Mate.

The scorching hole around his cock was becoming impossibly tighter, and his knot was swelling, and he put his whole back into his thrusts to get where he wanted to be. The omega had gone quieter, his whimpers soft and sweet, his trembling tights wet and the sounds of the taking loud in the air. He grunted, felt his own orgasm approach, and with one final shove buried himself deep into the welcoming heat. The whimpers became screams once again as his knot grew larger, and he needed to bite, needed to have everything the omega had to give. He yanked, and there it was, a pale shoulder and an even paler neck, with faint traces of an earlier bite. He growled, angry, and buried his teeth into the waiting flesh. Blood rushed into his mouth. His orgasm exploded into the omega's body.

His omega struggled weakly, but he held him tightly, luxuriated in the feeling of his knot, growing and hardening inside him, linking them together.

“Take it, take it,” he muttered and took hold of the omega's cock, smaller and more slender than his own. He moved his wrist, rapidly and with intent, until the omega keened and cried and came on his palm, and clamped tightly around his knot. He chuckled, and licked the blood on his omega's shoulders, and when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was crying.

_Oh God oh God oh God what have I done?_

There was nothing for it but to inspect the damage. His knot was firmly lodged inside Sherlock's hole, throbbing and greedy. He couldn't escape. Sherlock himself lay sobbing under him, limp and bloodied, because of him. All because John hadn't been able to control himself. And what was wrong with Sherlock's arms, still suspended above his head? John tried to see, but he couldn't reach. He asked Sherlock to get on his knees and the omega obeyed, silently and brokenly, triggering another orgasm from John and dear God, were those handcuffs?

He cast around frantically. Where were the keys? Who had cuffed Sherlock into his own bed, to suffer his heat even without the aid of toys? There was a piece of string, hanging from the bedpost. On the end of the string there was a key. John grabbed the key and it fit, it fit and he released Sherlock's abused wrists, tried to massage some blood flow back into them. Sherlock was passive and silent during the whole operation, his occasional sniffles the only sound in the room.

A terrible thought entered John's mind. He took another look at the cuffs. They were firm, no-nonsense metal things, favoured by NSY. Sherlock used to nick Lestrade's ID, and his cuffs, on occasion. 

“You did this yourself, you bastard,” John whispered, and Sherlock hugged his pillow and rolled his back, and John came again, groaning.

“Okay, this isn't good,” he continued and petted Sherlock's back, kissed his bloody shoulder and told him to move, to find a better position for the both of them. They ended up on their sides, John still behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his bony frame and pulsing, still pulsing, inside his gradually loosening hole. Sherlock curled around a pillow, sighed and relaxed. After a while, his breathing became steady. He had fallen asleep. John lay behind him, wide awake and terrified, and finally able to admit it, in love. Losing Sherlock now would destroy him. But having Sherlock, it seemed, was no better. He had hurt him, used him, taken him in the most animalistic way possible. He didn't deserve Sherlock. He should leave as soon as the knot let him go.

But Sherlock woke up before that happened, instantly distressed, and John did his best to soothe him. And he had to ask the question, had to understand what had happened, but Sherlock didn't answer, only breathed raggedly and then moaned his name like it was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that made sense at all. 

Only then did the knot soften, and Sherlock turned immediately, burrowed into his arms, searched for comfort, and how could he look at John like _that_ , after what he had done, when his hole was still wide open and his shoulder bled? But John didn't miss the telltale shivers, the scent already rising in the air. Their ordeal had only just started, and when Sherlock gripped him and trembled against him, John knew his decision was made. His omega was in distress and needed him. He placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's hair and sighed, deep and sad.

“It's okay, love, I've got you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but I'm here. You don't have to be alone. I've got you.”

They clung to each other, waiting for the next wave to hit. This time, it was John who fell asleep first.


End file.
